


we were never meant to make it half this far

by minorseventh



Series: love is on the radio (otayuri au) [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Music, alternate universe - DJ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 00:55:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11566965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minorseventh/pseuds/minorseventh
Summary: Well, this must be what falling in love feels like.





	we were never meant to make it half this far

**Author's Note:**

> title from fall out boy's "young and menace"
> 
> [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/athomeintheuniverse/playlist/7HLMtrklntKVgzv6eXrfoR)   
> 

“This might sound forward, but… are you free tonight?”

Yuri blinks out of his trance, trying to avoid being blinded again by charm. What now? Free the rest of–

“I’d be free any day whenever you’re asking me,” he says, involuntarily, before clapping a hand over his mouth, mortified.

The stranger raises his eyebrows, looking simultaneously flattered and interested, and can’t help but give a lopsided grin, and god, Yuri might even think that his smile is cuter than his nonchalant model look.

\--

Turns out this handsome stranger knows some people, or can at least pull some strings, because he gets them past the bouncer at what looks like a decent club without even a single suspicious look at Yuri.

He leads them to a tall, round bar table near the back, next to a makeshift unoccupied DJ station, a bit farther from where a mosh pit is already starting to form next to the stage. Then, with what can only be described as effortlessness, he steps into his seat and leans over at Yuri expectantly.

“Okay.” Yuri swallows, trying for cool once he’s done scrambling onto his own barstool. “You already know my name. What’s yours?”

“You can call me Beka for now,” the stranger answers, nodding at the bartender who’s waving in their direction.

“Beka. Suits you,” Yuri says. “I like it.”

“Alright,” Beka laughs. “If you say so.”

And something about that exchange just feels awfully familiar to Yuri, even though he can’t quite place a finger on it. It’s some kind of painful déja-vu nostalgia, and he has to yank himself back to the present so as to not miss any of the scene unfolding before him.

Beka interlaces his fingers with an inquisitive look in his eyes. “So you’d like my music recommendations. Well, we’ll get to that. Mind if I ask you yours first to get a taste?”

Yuri smiles despite himself. “I, uh… I listen to a lot of alt-rock, punk rock,” he admits. “And sometimes just random playlists of whatever comes up, I guess, like on the radio…” he trails off, not knowing what to say, hoping he doesn’t come across as, god forbid, unwitty.

“Let’s phrase it this way then: Bach or Debussy?”

“Debussy,” Yuri replies immediately. “Bach is always rigid, and although I admire his effort, the stiffness of his compositions is just so… boxed-in. Debussy’s got that experimental nature, at least. The weird pentatonic and whole tones, especially characterized into leaping arpeggios, can almost… just fly away, I guess?”

(If Yakov were here, he’d disagree, because the old man thinks Bach is the epitome of sophistication. In fact, the only thing stopping him from making Yuri skate to the entire _Well-Tempered Klavier_ is Lilia, who insists Bach was strictly written for warm-up stretching rituals.)

Beka looks satisfied with his answer. “Fair. Bastille or Beirut?”

“Beirut, for sure. _Nantes_ is kind of my theme song at the moment.”

“‘Gambling away my fright?’”

“Yeah,” Yuri says, mild surprise etched into the tone of his voice, amazed to hear the lyrics in a voice other than his own, in a setting outside the privacy of his bedroom, at a time other than 12AM. “‘Gambling away my time…’”

“And Bastille is often overplayed anyways,” Beka agrees, and puts a hand on his chin as if in deep concentration. “You know, I wasn’t always the biggest Beirut fan but I got back into it recently. Anyways. Alright. Careful, I’ll judge you based off your answer to the next one…”

Yuri smiles despite himself, and leans in closer so he doesn’t miss a word.

\--

After talking for what could have been seconds or hours (but however long it was didn’t seem long enough), Yuri finds himself out in the mosh pit, beaming as he jumps up and down in time among the mob. He can sense the tempo ripping through his bones, feel the bass line through his converse sneakers. It’s hot, and somewhat sweaty, and deafeningly loud, but Yuri is having the time of his life.

And although the crowd is blocking his view of the stage, he’s not complaining with the eyeful he’s getting of the incredible dancer next to him. It’s nothing crazy, but by now the leather jacket has come off, and nobody’s complaining.

The feeling is indescribable, absolutely thrilling. The band feeds off of the audience’s energy, roaring through guitar solos of famous hits in a seemingly infinite crescendo. The lights are flashing out of sync with the music, and frames of laced-up boots and bomber jackets weave in and out of view.

At some point in the night, the band launches into a rough cover of _To Sheila_ by the Smashing Pumpkins. Yuri sees strangers begin clasping hands and inevitably hooking up in the dim light.

And then before Yuri can process it, Beka holds out an outstretched hand, like a solemn invitation, picture of an absolute gentleman, which he takes. And then they dance, slowly spinning as if the world turned on its axis just to watch.

Beka’s looking at him like he’s the last person on Earth, and Yuri can’t handle it. He buries his head in Beka’s chest just to hide his smile, and finds himself drawn even closer. As he pushes away, he sees not a random dude from a record shop, but someone he has known for a long, long time. And Beka seems to confirm it, humming the chorus a blissful smile on his face: _you make me real, strong as I feel_.

This must be what falling in love must feel like.

_You make me real._

\--

Out of nowhere, Beka stops to check his phone.

“I have to go to work,” he says, pointing at the glowing time on the screen as he strides back to the back to retrieve his jacket.

Yuri doesn’t want to believe it, even as he follows Beka out of the pit. Nobody in their right mind would give up a midnight dance rave just to wake up for a 6AM shift. That’s what caffeine was made for, after all.

Beka seems to see what he’s thinking. “No, like, I landed the graveyard shift,” he explains with a shrug. “And as much as I want to stay here with you forever, I was supposed to be there two minutes ago to set up… so basically, Mickey’s gonna flip again.”

He looks around, tears some paper off a waiter’s forgotten notepad and scribbles something down before passing it to Yuri.

“I’ll see you sometime, yeah?”

\--

After two minutes of standing frozen in place, with too many thoughts swirling around in his head, Yuri realizes he has no idea how to get in touch with this gorgeous, badass, incredible human being. The thing is, he’s the tiniest bit afraid to ask. The other half of his brain tells him he’s batshit crazy for not following up a golden day and golden opportunity, and sends him running right out the door.

“Wait!” Yuri blurts, running over just as the stranger revs up his motorcycle, reaching out almost vulnerably. “I– I don’t know your real name yet!”

“You don’t?”

The stranger turns around, takes off his shades as he looks back over his shoulder.

“Well, I’m more commonly known around here as Otabek,” he says, with a sly smile, cocking his head to the side. He gives a two-fingered salute before riding away.

Yuri’s heart literally stops beating.

Otabek.

As the motorcycle becomes but a distant speck on the horizon, Yuri remembers he’s still holding that small piece of paper in his left hand. He unfolds it, almost gingerly, not knowing what to expect.

Otabek.

On the scrap, in clumsy handwriting, is a familiar phone number—one he’s been calling nearly every night now, one that Mila makes fun of him for listing as the only starred contact in his phone, one that he has already memorized better than the steps to his own SP choreo.

\--

He gets Victor to give him a ride back home.

Victor raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

You know, when he wasn’t trying to break the world record of flamboyancy, the guy isn’t half bad.

\--

“Welcome back to 103.1FM. That was Cruel Youth—Mr. Watson, one of my personal favorites,” Otabek says, just a few minutes past midnight. “Hope some of you made it out to the showcase downtown tonight—the music was rad but the company was even better. If I’m being honest with you, I wish I didn’t have to leave.”

Otabek laughs, low and smooth, his breath ghosting over the microphone. “But alas, I needed to make back out here to my beautiful audience. In any case, I think that was… the most fun I’ve had in a long, long time. Hope we can do it again sometime.

“Okay, listen up new music fans, because soon I’m going to be playing _Disarm_ by Bry, off his first album. The music video just dropped and any Harry Potter fans might want to check it out. But first, I’d like to dedicate a song to a voice that I’ve never seen, and a face that I can’t forget.

“ _To Sheila_ , by the Smashing Pumpkins.”


End file.
